


CHECKMATE.

by nowisGold



Category: Original Work
Genre: 17th Century, 18th Century, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Blood, Child Abuse, Child Marriage, Child Neglect, Cultural Differences, Emotional Hurt, Ephebophilia, F/M, Fainting, Forced Ejaculation, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Forced Relationship, Insecurity, Language Barrier, Loss of Virginity, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Murder, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pedophilia?, Physical Abuse, Praise Kink, Princes & Princesses, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Size Difference, Trauma, child bride, selective mutism, she is 14 he is 32, they both didn´t want this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-01-04 07:13:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18338738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowisGold/pseuds/nowisGold
Summary: What happens when a prince and a young princess are forced to have a wedding night?Plus the aftermath. (I don't know when I'll update.)It's not a happy story.





	1. Wedding night.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I made this. I just thought of the most heartbreaking princess story.

CHECKMATE.

 

The door unlocks with a soft click when he turns the doorknob. His heart is beating fast, making his ears ring and his throat closes up. He didn't want this. He wanted a love story.

It wasn't about what he wanted, he was his father's chess piece.

Erotic images flash by in his head of memories and what he hopes to find in his bedroom. 

Long legs, wide hips, wet lips, and a moaning woman, dramatically pressing her breasts in the air. Whispering ´Take me, I need you, I love you.´

Emphasis on hopes.

The heavy door opens and he steps inside. It feels like a cold blanket was laid over him. He swallows loudly.

In the middle of his bed was the girl he married today. Kneeling in a pose that is a tradition, a tradition that he doesn't understand anyone would want to exist.

Her face is pressing into a pillow, and if that wasn't enough her hands are clasped against her mouth. Her long dark hair brushed and unpinned, covering glimpses of her young face you might catch.

Her legs spread and her bum high in the air, though it had dropped as soon as he stepped in the room.

A nightgown made of the finest lace was covering her, so sheer, that she is unable to hide behind it, her naked childish body on display.

What a contrast from this afternoon, she had been suffocating and completely covered in a wedding dress that was too heavy for her. 

He takes a step forward. His shoes have never felt this heavy. Arriving at the bedside full with dread, he lets his eyes wander over her porcelain skin. 

She had been even paler when she had suddenly passed out today.

It had been so different from a lady fainting.

They would have waved their hand fan in the air and lean against the nearest couch. Exposing skin by trying to lose their corset on the spot while complaining loudly about the heat or the heated stories. All to show how delicate they were, like a flower, and leave to their chambers.

She had just dropped out cold on the ground next to him, caught by her giant wedding dress but still banging her head on the ground, without warning. Nothing delicate.

Minutes upon minutes passed before she could stand again, all the while gazing at him as if she took comfort in accepting reality. Her nausea was helping to finally dare to look at him. 

She had soft eyes as if she didn't criticize him and just wanted to see how he looked. She looked as if she saw they both weren't celebrating, they both were upset, that was a relief.

The wisdom in her eyes had shocked him, nailed him to the ground. 

He removes his clothing piece by piece, pondering what the best approach is. He doesn't know. The room is too quiet and his thoughts too loud. 

After making sure she isn't looking he takes off his last piece of clothing and stands naked next to the chair with his nightwear on it.

First his underwear and pants, and then, his silk shirt. Instead of putting it on he holds it in his hands. Perhaps she would like to wear it? 

He crawls on the bed scooting near her. Every inch closer makes his heart go faster. He's tingling all over his body. 

It feels, and maybe it is, wrong to lay with her. Everyone is celebrating.

He didn't want this. She didn't want this. No one calls it rape. 

He suddenly feels irritated at her, for never catching her with a smirk today, that she gets to mary his fathers first born. The highest option there was on the table for a princess in many many years. That he never caught her staring at him with little hearts in her eyes.

Her breath hitches, she shivers and raises her bum in the air again, she's trying so hard to do everything perfectly. He pushes it down with his hand. She can't hide her flinch. Is his hand so big or is she so small?

He pulls her arm, making her face him. Their eyes meet, hers are a beautiful dark brown, almost black, just like her hair. They look distressed, broken. He knows she is petrified of the unknown and above all homesick.

He wants to explain to her what will happen. She doesn't know, as if complete innocence would make her purer. He wants to comfort her, that he wouldn't bring her spirit down like others obviously did, or hold her in a room forever, never letting her visit home.

He lets her sit up and gives his shirt, helping her close it with the strings. It drowns her frame. The new layer of clothing makes her tense frame slightly soften, what was all it took for tears to slowly surface. He wipes them away silently. 

He wants to say that in a few years everything will be ok and he only will do this hurtful thing because he has no other choice.

He can't because he doesn't speak her language. 

He will learn it thou, as soon as possible, there hadn't been time for it beforehand. He already knows a few words, like no, yes, dog, horse, how are you, 1 to 10 and sorry.

'I'm sorry.' It feels like his throat is squeezing shut. 

Her eyes are too much to look at any longer, so to his shame, he lays her back in the traditional position. She doesn't answer, pressing her face in the pillow, and follows his lead. 

He moves behind her and lifts the layers of silk and lace over her butt exposing her womanhood. Again, a shiver ran through her. How to start?

It feels surreal like someone else is directing his body, and he is just a witness.

She needs to get wet, can a 14 year or girl get wet? He doesn't know. He could get hard when he was her age. 

He takes a deep breath and lets one hand slide to her pussy, trying to be as gentle as possible with his fingers, rubbing her clit in slow circles with his thumb.

Her pussy is bald, do they shave it in her culture or does she not grow hair down there yet? When do girls get their first period? He doesn't know. 

He had been shocked to see her today. Blinded by his own anger he hadn't listened to learn about the girl whom he had to marry. He just knew that it was a princess from the former enemy, who have many, he didn't know she was so young.

He will spend the rest of his days trying to make her happy. That's the first sentence he wants to learn so she will know. It feels sickening, how he wants to care for her as a father or older brother, yet here he is to sleep with her.

He cancels out every movement and noise she makes, not that there are many, and just focuses on his task. He wets his thumb with spit and continuous rubbing circles, not knowing what to do next. 

She wriggles her toes a bit and shivers again before he feels some wetness between her labia, to his great relief. 

He wets his middle finger and softly pushes against her entrance, which gives away and slowly but surely he moves in and out, pressing against her walls. After minutes of rubbing gently everywhere, she gets a lot wetter on her own. So he pushes another finger inside. She is tight, too tight.

She tenses up but hides her faint sobs and distress well. Minutes have passed of fingering her when she gets dry again. He realizes with dread that two fingers must hurt. He wets her with more spit and strokes everywhere, massaging with utter care, trying to not shake with his hands.

When she is wet again, he holds her hip firmly in place and forces a third finger inside with the others. 

She cries out in her cushion and tries to squirm away from his hold, but he's much stronger. On his fingers is blood, something he hasn't seen before, he has never seduced a maiden as some inferior men do. 

He fucks her on his fingers trying to be tender while she sobs softly in her hands. What is she thinking? Does she fear a fourth, a fifth finger? Has a servant girl secretly explained to her what sex is? 

He wipes some blood on the blankets so that tomorrow morning her name wouldn't be dragged through the mud. If the poor girl wouldn't have bled he would have made a cut in his palm and smear it on the mattress.

His ears are ringing and cold dread fills him for what's coming next, yet at the same time, he feels an excitement?

He touches his cock, it's soft, his hands can't seem to stop shaking. He isn't excited, but nervous. He strokes his shaft staring at it but it doesn't get hard. He shivers and reminds himself to breathe.

He closes his eyes and tries again. Gorgeous woman, so naughty to sleep with him, moaning and writhing in pleasure. Asking for more, giggling when he licks their nipples, tugging on long hair strands and lots of loving words.

Yes, this feels good, just like it always feels. He will let himself come really close then push inside. His breathing deepens, he lets himself forget. Forget what he will perceive if he opens his eyes and ears.

It still takes him so much longer than normal, to have dirty pleasure lapping inside, to release a few drops of pre-come, to have his hips twitch forward.

He is close, but he can't find the edge. It's frustrating, he feels desperate after a while, maybe close is close enough.

When he opens his eyes, he's thrown right back into reality. He wants to comfort her maybe with a sound, but a lump is in his throat blocking any noise. 

He holds her hips tightly after wetting his dick the best he could. He then pushes against her little opening and enters slowly. The pressure he has to put behind it is too much to be natural. Slowly but surely he fills her, while she has a death grip on his cock.

The girl is sobbing miserably but it sounds muffled. She is trying so hard to be good. 

He could tell when he saw her for the first time, that she was a ''perfect'' doll, no mischief in her, no personality, every movement she made was learned, no spirit, a gorgeous young mare with so much potential broken, to be used, to be played dirty, just a chess piece.

It feels like he's going to pass out, his heart feels cold, he waits, and he remembers to breathe, breathe. 

Not bottoming out he just starts moving. He simply stares at her shaking small frame and how her pussy is stretched around him, it looks and feels wrong, perverted.

After a long time, unwanted pleasure crawls inside his skin, like little bugs, and when she eventually quiets down he is able to find the edge to spill over, he chases it and cums. Marking her inside with his seed.

Could she get pregnant and give birth healthfully, with her slender hips?  
He doesn't know.

He pulls out, quickly lays her on her side and covers her completely with blankets, so he won't need to look her in the eyes again, she gasps from the shock and fear.

He can hear several footsteps leave from the hall, of course. Then the room turns quiet so quiet, it's disturbing, only his pounding heart can be heard.

Somehow, a weight is lifted from his shoulders, the worst is over, he had done his part, thousands upon thousands of lives saved. He is so exhausted. Sleep sounds like a good idea, so he just crawls under the blankets, avoiding the little princess, his wife, who he just corrupted, defiled.

When he closes his eyes he senses tears surfacing, don't cry, you're in your early 30s. He feels a different weight settle on his shoulders, he has to live with some big consequences for the rest of his life, guilt, how used he feels, no love story, and above all his heart brakes thinking how she must feel, how hopeless and how he's utterly helpless.

His father had loomed with a great war if he didn't get more land. The other kingdom offered to give them land without a battle, in return, they wanted to mix royal blood. 

Lives were just chess pieces to be played in father's eyes.  


Soon they'll be KING and QUEEN.

CHECKMATE.


	2. Father-figure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought the first chapter was going to be the whole story. Because it was so short, I couldn't be bothered to give the characters names, and I kinda liked the style of it. Now that I'm writing more it's maybe not the best to not have names, but I just kept on writing like that. If it will turn out hideous, or complicated I'll change the story to where they will have names.

Questions.  
How can you kill your own father?

What can I give you what your daddy couldn't give you? 

He's zoning out, staring at the letters on his desk. The documents filled with information, questions, and answers seem insignificant compared to his thoughts. 

The sound of a clock softly ticking and heavy rain falling against the large windows disappear in the background, it matches his mood.

He is thinking of her. 

She is laying in bed with a cold. She hadn't mentioned that she was not dressed for the cool weather on her trip to visit her home. 

He had presumed that it would make her happy, help her relax her tense frame. It had not, a little bird had told him. 

She had been scared to go home. She had puked in the carriage, once inside her childhood house, she had acted like a piece of furniture, something she doesn't do as much as she used to.

You can assume it hadn't been a good home concerning her. 

She was and is quiet, only answering in a few words, never asking. The language barrier only contributes to it, any exchange in words went through her new and much kinder governess, but even to the ones who spoke her language, she was still. 

He doesn't know why, is she scared to speak, or is it her way to rebel?

Supposedly, she has continuously acted like this perfect little doll, unless she was free of duties and burdens. 

Had someone snapped her spirit and thought it was how a princess, she should be?

First, he had presumed it was because of, of him, of that night, that night a few months ago.

That morning after he hadn't expected to see her sit at breakfast, the possibility had not even crossed his mind, he had dreaded to see her, to see the harm he had done.

Yet there she was, she looked about the same, except you could see she was shaken up, but not in a shock-like state like yesterday. Her eyes weren't red but puffed up, betraying that she had wept.

Somehow he had expected to see bruises and blood, but he knew she was bruised and bleeding where he couldn't see.

After his wave of surprise past, he didn't know what to do, everything felt numb, he had greeted her with a deep bow. She copied him with a wobble in her step.

He had sat dumbly at the table staring at his plate, moving food around. It had been an everyday breakfast, a deep frown had crossed his face, would she be happy with this food? She should receive the best of the best, not the simple food he prefers to eat every morning.

He needs to do everything in his power to make her happy.

He had ordered around and called in the head chef with power behind his voice. Ordered the man to come up with new recipes, rare, beautiful, delicate and with imported herbs. Everything her taste buds would receive needed to be perfect. They need to make her happy.

He took a deep sigh after his nonsense and looked at her. Her frame was slightly shaking, her eyes dodging his, the color so dark and empty, a twinkle of joy missing.

Maybe she would be happy with the next meal.

Of course, it hadn't helped one bit. 

This had turned into a big puzzle, how to make her happy? A question playing like a mantra in his head. What can I give you what your daddy couldn't give you?  
He knows he has been avoiding reality with his quest to find her dresses, scarfs, shoes, and jewelry.

'Coward.' He hisses to himself.

As a man who has almost everything laying at his feet, he knows objects won't give you true, or lasting joy. People do, whom you can love, trust, have adventures with, creating valuable memories.

Apparently, a loyal pup can give those things too. 

He groans when a blush travels towards his cheeks as he remembers how worked up he had gotten about a fucking puppy.

A military colleague of him had given a 7 week old English Pointer to her, like a fucking KNIGHT in shiny armor. 

His narcissistic smirk when her eyes did lit up, had rubbed all the wrong ways, but that twinkle in her eyes gave him hope that she could be happy.

How she carefully hold on to the little thing, like it was the most precious thing on earth was difficult to see, because it didn't remind him of a child with her dog, but of a developing girl who had little sparkles of a mother-instinct growing inside her. 

He was ashamed of himself for seeing it like that, ashamed for his thoughts. Was he a good man?

Seeing her being caring for the weak, such a beautiful personality trait, gave him hope that she could be his wife not only by name, that maybe one day a love story will begin, but the feeling was crushed under the knowledge that he didn't give the ball of fur.

When the dog cried for its mother the following nights and pissed everywhere, something that puppies do, he kicked the dog out.

Coward.

Her quiet sobs she tried to hide for the missing thing had squeezed his soul until his throat was closed up and he had to remember how to breathe.

That had been a couple of weeks ago, the pup was missing, and in a weird way, he was drenched in his own shame and filled with regret.  
He has done evil in life, but taking a puppy from a girl somehow takes the second place on his list of immoral actions.

 

The first place goes to fucking her, finishing inside her with a groan.

She hates you.

Someone knocks on the door snapping him into reality. He rubs his eyes as if he can erase those images.

'Yes?' He calls loudly.

The door opens, and the old servant speaks. 'My royal highness, the doctor is ready to speak to you now.'

He pinches his nose. 'You know you can call me by my first name.'

'Yes, my royal highness.'

He grunts at the forced habit. 'Let him in.'

Once he was alone with the doctor, the genuinely caring man explained what he already knows.

She has more responsibilities than she can carry, more people in the room equals more anxiety. The doctor became red in anger and lost some spit from his mouth when he reminded him of her age as if he had requested the youngest princess available.

Later that morning he gets up and wanders the palace until he stands in front of her wing with dread. The feeling fills himself with self-hatred.

She hates you. Why does he care so much about that?  
Coward. Disgusting.

Someone should say it to him.

'I am a coward. ' 

'Sir? are you all right? I've been looking for you. I've found the perfect puppy! Look!'

He snaps his head towards the babbling servant and blinks before his eyes travel to the ground where a pup is wagging its tail of. 

He squints his eyes at it judging it to the bone, female, not male, lapdog, no hunting dog, longer fur, a couple of months older, seems well behaved, a little bit too happy, different color, more trained.

'Perfect.' He grins and picks up the pup, suddenly he feels confident enough to enter her bedroom. 

He knocks on her door and once allowed to enter he hides the squirming thing behind his back.

A maiden and her governess are with her. It's not really proper to enter her bedroom, but he doesn't really care. He goes to her bedside and tries to sit with the pup while she peeks under the blankets. 

He likes it when she isn't formal and dares to look at him, but it only happens when she feels unwell, she sometimes even smiles. 

He tries to remember the words he's been studying. It takes a few seconds before he finds them. 'How are you feeling, my little princess?'

Pet names are imported to learn too, he already knows a lot of them.

She gives the tiniest smile at his struggling posture or tongue before giving a thumbs up just above the covers. 

He hums in answer before the pup clumsily reveals itself. He could see the exact moment when her eyes lit up. It was beautiful to see. She sits up and stares in awe at the pup, 

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry for taking your dog away.'

Her eyes snap up to his. They are so dark, endless, and filled now, with hope. Beautiful.

 

He feels like a father-figure who surprises his daughter when he gives the wriggling pup to her. 

It made him leave the room quickly.

How is it, that sometimes in a split second he feels like a waiting partner, waiting for his fucking stupid, but desired love story, and other times he feels like he's adopted her and needs to be her protector.

He's glad that he didn't see her as a compatible partner this time. 

It just makes his act feel more sickening.  
He squeezes his eyes in frustration and shakes his head.  
That's not true, one mindset doesn't feel worse than the other.  
They both feel disgusting.  
It's a losing game.

He walks in the black and white tiled hall towards the garden, it still rains, but he needs to clear his mind and get some fresh air.

He feels clumsy in his thoughts and actions towards her.

He doesn't feel clumsy in a different game, he's learned it from the best.

How can you kill your own father?  
How do you kill your own father?

It calms him down, enough to make him breathe in deep and crack his knuckles.

CHECKMATE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like where the story is heading.  
> Also, is the no names thingy a hit or miss.?  
> Thnx for the kudos and comments!:)


	3. Nightmare.

The sun is shining in his eyes, making it difficult to watch her enjoy the little fountain. It is warm outside, and crickets are rehearsing their music, making him drowsy. 

A butterfly flies by.

He´s sitting in a small white chair with a book trying to read the foreign words, but learning is difficult when someone nearby, who rarely smiles, has a shy smile on their face. 

He has to learn, his little queen may be wise, watching and noticing everything like a hawk, but she isn't the smartest. His language won't stick in her head, but it was worth it, his thick accent sometimes made her laugh behind her hand.

 

Her failure at learning a completely different language made her tense up whenever he had stepped inside the library. Her governess would breathe out a sigh, directed at the visible, excessive tension between them. 

He hadn't know why every time her tutoring was mentioned she panicked behind her eyes. What did it matter, if she did not succeed?

One day, she knocked on the door of his office room, a book pressed to her chest, her pup following close behind, and asked for forgiveness in a way a sinner would ask God. It was the longest sentence he had heard coming from her pink lips.

It was like someone had slapped him in the face with every word she said. Had she taken steps back in his secret mission to make her feel at home, or had she stood still?

He explained to her that if she couldn't learn or was unsuccessful, she didn't have to.

He had taken the book out of her hold, and lead her to the library with an idea bubbling inside. 

He had grabbed the long ladder and placed it against the bookshelf in the far back. He climbed on it while she was watching him with curious and adventurous eyes, wiping her tears away.

On the top of the bookshelf lay boxes covered in dust, he had grabbed them all, wobbling a bit on the tall ladder. Once he stood with both legs on the ground he opened one on a table, making him sneeze. 

In the box was a painting of a horse surrounded by flowers, underneath it where the puzzle pieces.

He gave the piece of paper to the princess who cherished it and listened in silence while he emptied the box on the table.

He had puzzled with her until the edges and corners where completed. 

Her attention was glued to the little pieces when he left her on her own to let her calm down from her distress. The image he saw when he walked out of the room and looked over his shoulder would have been a beautiful painting or puzzle. 

A girl with a dog at her feet, a rosy dress complementing her lips, untidy dark hair contrasting her skin, and her gaze far far away.

 

It's her seventeenth birthday today, but no one is invited to some protest. 

He doesn't care, besides, he makes the rules now. 

The celebration of the crowning past only recently, he can see the exhaustion still wearing down on her. 

Why should her day be filled with anxiety? No one can change his opinion. 

He remembers when he was still a kid, younger as her, how he hated every formality. How it choked him, swallowed him whole, how he wanted to yell at his father or tutor until his throat was hoarse, but never did. 

He can give her what he wanted. He can give her what she wants.

His little quiet flower was a late bloomer, in body and mind, only recently her waist seemed to thin ever so slightly compared to her hips and breasts, seventeen years old today yet looking so foreign and wrong-placed in life.

He has known her now for almost three years, and could now see the demons haunting her.

People give her anxiety.  
Talking makes her quiet.

He likely gave her a couple of those demons too. 

He is yearning for her forgiveness but is scared to ask. He looks down staring at his hands, hands with blood on them. Coward. 

At the same time, he doesn't want forgiveness. He should rot in hell, his way of self-harm. He should have never hurt the girl. He would punish someone with his actions. He should punish himself. Coward.

He still feels the bugs crawling under his skin when his never-ending train of thoughts goes offroad.

How does she feel? 

He doesn't know.

He´s pulled back to reality when she splashes some water at Miss Daisy who yips at it.

He is thankful for Miss Daisy's existence, the little Charles-spaniël is distracting at the right times and makes life seem carefree whenever you look at her wagging tail.

Again, the picture they create with each other would make a beautiful painting.

Unlike the enormous painting that is being made now in an atelier, of her in the cathedral being crowned as a queen.

He doesn't want it hanging in one off the long hallways, mismatching the black and white tiles.  
It will only remind him, or her, of the stress from that day. Why hang something like that in a house what needs to be home?

 

It had been a long and cloudy day. The wind had blown fiercely as if a storm was trying to break loose. When they stood on the square with two rooks looming high in the sky, crows were fleeing the scene.

Inside the cathedral, the bishop stood defensive with a sour expression on his ugly face, looking as if he was ready to strike, scaring the new queen.

She had looked as if she was going to pas out even though she was kneeling, with the heavy dress, giant red cape, and her golden crown.

He had curled his arm around her waist, which felt more like a puzzle piece then it ever had, to hold her firmly.

She had looked and sounded so small when she said ´Sorry.´ for being unwell.  
He winked and whispered to her that it didn't matter and that she was doing so good. ´You're doing good.´

 

´You are doing so good, good girl.´ He whispers so only the butterfly next to him can hear. He likes that sentence for all the wrong reasons. It makes his fingertips tingle and a blush spread on his face.

He scoffs at himself for letting his mind wander to his fantasies with the little queen so close.

He closes the book and lays it on the table, shaking the glasses filled with lemonade and scaring the pretty insect away.

He closes his eyes, with the sun making him warm, the sound of water, crickets, and Miss Daisy in the distance lulling him, and the tingles from his previous thoughts still souring excessively through his blood, he's in dreamland within minutes.

Dreamland.

Nightmare-land.

*WARNING, MURDER SCENE*

 

Angry eyes popping out of their skull. Spit landing everywhere.

´Tying up your own father like this! Who the fuck do you think you are?´ The raging king flips a chess board with his kicking legs. ´In my OWN room!´

´Could you stop screeching for a second? I want to talk to you first.´

´Like this? With ME tied to a chair?! Guards!´

He frowns. ´They won't come to your rescue, father.´

´My rescue? What are you going to do, and did you really think they will listen, listen to you?!´ 

´It wasn't hard to convince your friends and allies that I would be better suited to be king, with simple letters.´

´Nonsense! What are you going to do, kill me? You wouldn't dare to!´

´Would you like to know why father?´

The old man spits before yelling. ´Untie me now, and I will only dishonest you from being my son!´

´A tempting offer.´ He mumbles before wiping the spit off his face. ´You know, you've been like a leech, a parasite to me my entire childhood, so every opportunity I get I distance myself from you, I don't even want to be king, I never wanted to wear your broken crown.´ He fetches a sharp knife from his pocket.

Suddenly his father stills and raises an eyebrow. ´What about your younger brother, I could pass him the title? In fact, if you untie me this instant I will make it happen.´

´ He doesn't want your title either, imagine what a fack up of a father you are if both of your eldest sons don't want your role.´ He circles the old man slowly. ´I wished he wanted it.´

´ What about your youngest brother!´

´Father, you thinking, that that absolute lunatic and narcissistic baby is fitted to be king gives me more reason to kill you. In fact, that's the whole reason. You've lost touch to reality, and how big the consequences are with every decision you've been making lately. It's just a game to you nowadays, isn't it?´

´That absolute nonsense!!!´

´You don't have to yell so loud, father. You wanna know when I found out? At the end of my wedding day, after I saw my little bride.´

´For Christ sake! This is about a girl?!´

´No, no listen, I asked around why, why her, no one knew, there was no reason, and then I knew why, you just wanted to piss me off, for disagreeing with your war! You knew my type and gave me the fucking opposite! For shit and giggles?´

´Oh common, don't be so dramatic!´

´Oh you have no idea, you hurt her, and me, instead of starting a pointless war, people have died for less.´ He hisses. If eyes could kill his biological father would already be dead. ´Now answer me, it's just a game for you isn't it?´

´You're not gonna kill me! I get it, you've scared me, shook some sense in me, now let me go on this instance!´

´Tsk tsk tsk, you and I both know what would happen if I do that. It makes it all the easier knowing that it is me, or you, now. It's as if you've lost your mind.´ He has to go trough with this, too many lives at stake.

´You wouldn't dare to kill someone, let alone ME, your own father!´

´And that's why I'm standing here, not an assassin. Always mocking me, calling me too weak, too untrained, or too dumb after I found my passion in the military, to try and fix there what was fixable.´ Sweat leeks from his forehead.

´You are the fucking psychopath here, not ME! Don't you dare and lay a finger on ME! Kneel for me right now and I'll forgive you, you demon, you monster!!!´

His hand with the knife in it is clenched, shaking. A headache pounds in his head. He´s said everything he wants to say and his heart feels relief, but now, the desire to kill the king like one of his enemies on the battleground has lessened.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

´Hah! See?! Now untie ME! You little, weak, soft -´

He opens his eyes to coordinate his swinging hand. 

The sharp knife slices the skin of his father's neck. 

Blood, blood everywhere, dead eyes are staring at him. 

He gasps for air while staring back.

The cut rips farther when the dead kings head hangs to the side. So much blood. 

The cut tears even farther, unnaturally...

...until the head is separated. 

It drops on the floor in the stream of blood.

The river of red liquid is already to his ankles. He needs to get out. He runs to the door in the far distance but trips over his fathers head, landing face first.

He's immediately drenched from head to toe. A cold sweat breaks out when he feels little things floating everywhere and somehow ending up beneath his clothes. 

Under his clothes!

He panics and manages to pull one from under his shirt. Chess pieces! Relief engulfs him, they are just chess pieces.

He sits, turns around, and looks up. He freezes.

The ex-kings head floats towards him, drenched in blood, maggots pouring out of his mouth, and eyes tracking his own.

His fathers decapitated head under his clothes...

He's choking.

Air!

 

*END OF WARNING*

CHECKMATE


End file.
